Chlorine kissed skin
by better-company-than-a-skull
Summary: Teen!lock. When Sherlock and John first come to Thamesmead Secondary School the don't give each other a second glance, until Sherlock decides it's time to go to somewhere more suited to his position.


**Alrighty, so this is new for me, I don't write about kids so it'd be fab if you let me know what you think**

They filed into the hall with wandering eyes absorbing the foreign environment, a small percentage cocky, most scared shitless after hearing tales from older siblings of heads stuffed down toilets and long-winded detentions if you did so much as forget to bring a pen or you tied your tie wrong, the stories passed down through generations, the most infamous being the tale of Carl Powers who died only months ago after drowning in a swimming competition. Rumour had it that his spirit haunted the school, especially the sports hall, in which he played around with rival school teams leading his old school to success. People were mourning and everyone refused to go into the school pool, teachers included, terrified that he'd drag them down to the soggy sticking plaster depths and hold them down until all life drained out of them.

Year sevens were a mischief of mice entering a new home, unsure of the boundaries, peeking heads round doors and watching teachers with beady eyes, trying to decide who was nice and would be a pushover, and who wasn't, entirely based on appearance alone. This was achievable if you really 'looked' and it had already been figured out by an individual. Ring on their fingers so they were married, if somebody had chosen to marry them the teacher couldn't have been that bad. Frown lines, obvious sign that their life disappointed them and they'd blame it on their students. Maths teachers lives were dull with lessons to match and science teachers varied biology teachers reserved and chemistry teachers with hidden psychological issues, proving for interesting lessons. Of course their were variables like current debt and going through bad divorces, but usually the methods were fail proof.

The atmosphere was thick, full of doubt and fear and stationery as well as the annoying chatter of overexcited kids who were already silently judging each other, not sure whether they liked secondary school or not. Massive black blazers with excessively long sleeves and shirts too white and too crisp hung off the skinny bodies of kids who hadn't yet found their place, and many sported backpacks as big as them and so at risk of falling over, full of unnecessary books, equipment and emergency p.e kits, just in case, and in one boys case; a skull.

Hated by all, (and some of the smarter kids were aware of this and fully prepared to become invisible) everybody up to year eleven disdainful especially as it'd all been done before by them and there was always the ever present reminder of how embarrassing they acted in their earlier years, resulting in an unspoken rule that after getting to year eight, everybody there and above was to look down upon them

Everything to them was excessive and over sized complaining that they'd never find their way around and that they couldn't remember door numbers or teachers names. Use the mind palace technique. The message had been drilled into their heads that secondary school was a huge deal and that from here on out it was going to be tough, primary school nothing compared to this, the beginning of their future careers where you find out what you want to be and what you're actually good at, the place where you make your true friends for life, the ones who you'll never forget and stay in contact with forever, the stages in which you're supposed to stay out late with people you shouldn't hang around with. The place where you're stereotyped from the start and the hierarchy sticks from day one. The place where self esteem is hung up and attacked. Once a loser, always a loser, and this is why it was important for the 'popular' kids to claim their territory before anybody else could get to the mark.

'Alright, settle down.' Greg Lestrade, the school's headmaster said into the mic that'd been set up at the front of the hall, his voice authoritative. An immediate silence filled the room making Greg shudder slightly. He hated these introductions, looking into the worried faces of eleven year olds and trying to explain what would be expected of them in their time at Thamesmead High School. The usual things; show respect for teachers, students and equipment, work hard, sit straight and fly right or there would be consequences Greg bored himself reciting his speech and after being headmaster for almost ten years now he was tired. Tired of how boring the school was. Most of the kids came from good areas, so minimal fights broke out and nobody spoke back. It hadn't always been this way though. When Greg first began as head teacher the school was a mess, the students receiving the lowest grades in London and the school quickly becoming the place not to send your children unless you wanted to set them up to fail, and most going on to do nothing with their lives except to suck off benefits and breed. But he liked a challenge, and after a few years or so had started a revolution of change to what had now become a well known school with waiting lists. It was his project and now it was more than complete. Of course all he'd really done was expel the worst and wait for the rest to move on, and after that it was just a show. Government grants to buy new things, meaning nothing ever changed but the scenery. It was an illusion. Stick a kid in a train wreck of a school with graffiti'd walls and bathroom stalls with no doors and they'd likely put themselves in a mindset that they deserved that school and developed an attitude to match. Place a child in a newly decorated school and the rest would fall into place. And so every year Greg waited for a group of year sevens who were different and showed promise. Kids he could sculpt into his vision of perfection, kids who'd bite back. But he decided this was not the year. He'd quit soon he told himself, looking at the dull little faces before him, then stopping at the end of the first row. Another pair of eyes bored into him, judging him, _analysing him._

He scowled back at Greg with piercing eyes, the strangest shade of blue, green and grey which stood out brilliantly against a head of glorious black curls and porcelain skin Greg took a metaphorical step back, used to cowering and a drop of eye contact when he laid eyes upon students, and here was this boy staring him down, somehow challenging him. He sat straight- backed with excellent posture, somewhat reminding Greg of an eagle standing proudly over its dead prey. It made him shudder slightly. He didn't mean to stare but this kid...he looked like he was carved from marble by master craftsmen. It was creepy, and the boy raised his eyebrow, apparently tired of his headmaster staring at him.

'Right, so follow your form tutors to class and you'll get given your timetables.' Greg said uncomfortably. He wanted to be out of the hall, back in his office where he was boss and not some petulant school boy who obviously thought he was something special just because he had a face like some kind of weird Greek god. The boy got up, revealing that he was a lot taller than most of the boys in his class. Long legs and cheekbones, this kid would be popular, Greg thought, girls would be after him. He gave Greg a final confident look before following Miss Hooper to the science block. Greg walked purposely to his office and switched on his computer, making a cup of strong coffee before it all loaded. _Sarah_ he typed when a password was requested. Sentimental, but at least he wouldn't forget it. He opened up the file 7MH and skimmed through pictures of the students until he came to the one he wanted. Sherlock Holmes. He knew that surname. He thought for a moment then switched to google, entering the name Holmes. Several news reports flashed onto the screen. He clicked the first one dated a couple of years ago:

**Violet Holmes mudered for art fake.**

"_...Mrs Holmes, successful business woman and owner of multiple art galleries, as well as mother of two was today pronounced dead after being treated in an unnamed private hospital for multiple stab wounds. Violet left her meeting in the city of Rome late afternoon on February 6th and was stabbed outside in front of her sons by what witnesses say to be 'hooded men', similar to men in a piece Violet had bought for her private collection. Evidence suggests she had declined a deal with an anonymous art dealer after concluding the paintings were fake and that he was trying to con her. Taking no risks he presumably sent assassins to do his dirty work for him and make sure the entrepreneur wouldn't reveal his identity. So far no leads have been found to who this dealer my be but investigations continue. When Violets husband, travel journalist Arthur Holmes was asked what he was going to do he replied 'Leave Paris and move back to London to be with my boys'..."_

Greg blew on his coffee. Poor kid, no wonder he had such an experienced look in his eyes, he'd seen his own mother slowly die. Greg sighed, he'd probably have some psychological problems embedded in him.

…

Sherlock sat himself down in the front row, nearest to Miss Hoopers desk and studied his timetable, remembering all the classes on the way to the hall and relating them to the numbers and letters on the piece of paper in front of them. It was proving to be difficult as they only passed a few classes, and most of those he wasn't in. Science with Miss Hooper first so that was fine, then art. Where were the art rooms?

'Molly can I go to the toilet please?' Sherlock asked, planning to do a full two laps of the school in order to get all the rooms firmly in his mind.

'If you promise to not to use my first name again.' Molly had heard about Sherlock from his old school. She'd got the notes on his little 'quirk' as they'd put it, how he'd dig stuff up and say things that didn't need to be said. They said he used to be well liked at school with lots of friends until his mom died, the point at which he began noticing things. Everyone made allowances for the first year or so, saying he was just adjusting and of course it would change him, it would be strange if a boy saw his mother get stabbed in the chest and didn't come out different afterwards. Then he got worse and started pointing out things out like who had crushes on who and who'd stolen somebody else's spiderman eraser. Things people didn't want to know, but he carried on anyway, eventually getting a teacher fired in his final year for taking cocaine, which the man swore was chalk dust. Ever since that nobody really spoke to him in fear that he'd discover some deep hidden secret.

'Okay.' Sherlock obliged. He liked Miss Hooper, she was good natured, though Sherlock thought, she could have been more assertive and less of a pushover. Sherlock decided against manipulating her as one, she was nice and it wouldn't be a nice thing to do, and two, it would be too easy. Mainly for the latter. He hopped off the stool and got his bag before going to explore the school. He'd look around the science block first he decided, noticing the security cameras inside the building weren't actually switched on, and so entering an empty classroom and having a look around. Most of the chemicals he loved, Vanadium being his favourite, where locked away. Mycroft had taught him to pick locks but he didn't particularly want to be caught in the act of reacting halogens with alkali metals. He hurried into the main school building, avoiding senior staff doing their rounds, and noted all the rooms he passed, adding them to his memory as he went along, locking each door behind him in order to remember it until he unlocked them.

'Are you in my class?'

Sherlock snapped his head around to see a boy, quite small in height with sandy blonde hair. He walked a few steps behind Sherlock and smiled at him with straight, white teeth. He had a nice smile that made you want to instantly give him a hug. Sherlock knew him, he was in his class. He's chosen to sit at the back of the with the rest of the boys who thought they were too good for the school and that they'd all millionaire footballers/ entrepreneurs/ boy band members when they grew up. By law this meant he was a douche. Although that didn't mean he wasn't a nice douche, he was probably one of the nicest in the year, the only word to describe him being _nice._ And he'd been nice all of his life, and this meant he got squashed by people who weren't so nice, and he got used a lot, mainly to finish class projects and help with homework but end up doing the whole thing. He didn't mind though, honestly, just being there for people was enough. Sherlock could see this, that there was barely an ounce of bad in him.

'Yes, and I'm pretty sure that you know I am, so why ask?' Sherlock replied, speaking over his shoulder as he carried on around the history and geography corridor. John annoyed him. He obviously felt compelled to talk to Sherlock for some reason, make conversation, but why?

'Oh, er...' he scurried after Sherlock. 'I'm John.' He stuck his hand out, a gesture which Sherlock ignored, letting John drop his hand awkwardly. Like John, Sherlock also knew how to be nice, yet he chose not to, simply because he didn't want to.

'I know, you're John Watson and you have a crush on Helen Roberts, you have a cat...two cats and you don't know it yet but you'll probably go into the medical proffesion one day, even though you're set on being a journalist.' Sherlock remarked snidely.

'What, no I don't even like her.' John said, panic evident in his voice. 'Okay how did you know I want to be a journalist and how did you know about Helen?' He implored. He was hurrying alongside Sherlock at a faster pace and he was becoming slightly breathless, trying to compete with Sherlocks long strides. From the first introduction day he'd seen Sherlock and knew he was different, maybe because he was weirdly pale, or maybe because he could see Sherlock constantly thinking, blue veins pulsing slightly, branching out by his forehead. It worried him, him looked slightly unwell all the time and he wanted to find out what was wrong with him and get some colour back into his cheeks. Sherlock mystified him and he wanted to reach out and speak to him and have some meaningful conversation (which he was sure it would be) but he looked like royalty in a room of peasants and frankly, John didn't feel worthy.

'You're pupils dilated, and your pulse quickened, and you drool when you speak to her, but you don't think you're good enough for her, although I can assure you she's not that wonderful a person, and then there's the threat of Billy Simmons who's also competing for her and to be frank he's above you on the hierarchy so I'd give up now because she's more attracted to him. I knew about the cats as you have scratches on your arms, some deeper than other indicating different claw lengths, so I assume you have more than one feline creature in your house, lucky guess really that it was cats, but dogs don't tend to scratch. I know you want to be a journalist because today we have English and from the back of the class I could hear that you were excited about that prospect, and you read everything you see, and your questions are short and to the point.' Sherlock said calmly, pausing at times for effect. He stopped and looked smugly at John, then carried on walking.

'That was amazing. Frodo and Legolas, my cats that is.' John exhaled and blushed slightly. 'I like Lord of the Rings.'

'You really think so?' Sherlock paused and turned to look at John, ignoring his later comment. He didn't care for cats.

'Of course it was.' John shook his head. 'Extraordinary, quite extraordinary, of course I like The Hobbit too, maybe more than Lord of the Rings.'

'Yeah, well that's not what people usually say.' Sherlock stepped forward towards John, who flinched in return and stopped babbling. Sherlock had been ridiculed his whole life and it was impossible to get his head around the fact that somebody was praising him for something that seemed to annoy so many people. He couldn't help it though, it'd all become a bad habit.

'What do people normally say?' John asked, looking up at Sherlock.

'Piss off.'

Sherlock turned on his heel and carried on down the corridor, John following his path and telling an uninterested Sherlock about his cats.

**If i ever get a cat I will so be calling it Frodo.**

**Review please, if you'd like :)**


End file.
